You Never Forget
by nicky69
Summary: In every life there are defining events. For a moment we see things with crystal clarity and our world is forever altered. Author's Note and warning inside.
1. Chapter 1: Gil

**Author's Note**: This is the first in a series of unrelated fics, each focusing on a different member of the team. There is no connection between each fic, other than the general theme of the piece, which is first times. Betaed by both the lovely **elmyraemilie**and **ilovemycsi**. Any mistakes you find are my own.  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own CSI, CBS does. I'm only playing in their sandbox .

**Warning**: This story deals with the aftermath of child abuse. There are no descriptions of the act, however if the subject matter distresses you please do not read it.

**You never forget: Gil **

You never forget your first time; there's something special about it, something unique. No matter what follows, you can never recapture that feeling and no matter how hard you try, you can never be the same person you were before. We are all of us changed by our experiences. For good or bad they mould us, shape us into the people we are and our world is forever altered.

Gil can clearly remember the fist time that he kissed a girl. He remembers the feel of sweet, tentative lips barely touching his own. He remembers the moist heat of gossamer breath ghosting over his skin, setting it a-tingle. He remembers his own heart beating too rapidly, an irregular rhythm, perfectly in time with his chaotic emotions.

He remembers the first time that he saw a dead body. He remembers vividly that awful day when he was nine. The summer sun was hot outside, burning up the sidewalk; drowning the world in a haze of heat and lassitude. Inside the house was cool, blessedly so, but it brought no relief. His father lay cold and serene, an unwilling traveller in the land of death and Gil had never felt so lost or so confused.

He remembers his first case featuring an abused child. He remembers his own outrage and fury at this heinous crime and his sorrow for the victim. Oh, yes, he remembers….

He hasn't been on the job long; in fact, he's barely had a chance to adjust to Texan time and the older CSI's are still ribbing him about still his 'virgin' status when he gets the call. A 415C, disturbance, children involved. When he arrives on the scene however, he finds that this is not the case; it is something so very much worse. A child, a boy, has been assaulted; sexually assaulted.

As he prepares to enter the victim's home he takes a quick look around at the circus now camped out on their doorstep. Four squad cars, blues still flashing in a silent parody of holiday fireworks, carnival lighting of the most macabre kind. An ambulance, with attending paramedics, social services and his own crime lab vehicle, all invading the quiet, mundane reality of suburban life. Across the street, the family's curious neighbours vie with each other for the clearest view of the ongoing events and try to charm the cops on duty into giving up the juicy details of what has recently transpired. If they only knew the truth, they would not be so eager to trade gossip.

Picking up his case, he makes his way into the middle class home, taking in the comfortable surroundings and the trappings of everyday family life. The furniture is slightly worn, though far from old. It has the appearance of constant use and is inviting and welcoming, much like the entire house. Whoever lives here is generous and unpretentious. He observes a plethora of photographs, prominently displayed on the mantel; candid shots that have the look of an enthusiastic amateur, all featuring a host of happy smiling faces and carefree joy. Gil doubts that there will be any more pictures like that for a long time to come.

Following the directions of the officer stationed at the front door, he makes his way slowly upstairs. Voices speaking quietly from a room on the right draw him to its open door. Inside he finds a handsome man in his thirties and a beautiful woman of around the same age; the parents, he presumes. The woman clings to her husband, her body crushed against his solid warmth, seeking solace and comfort. They don't see him, too caught up in their grief and self-recrimination and he feels like an interloper; the worst kind of voyeur, soaking up their pain and distress.

Withdrawing, for the moment, he turns once more to the hallway, finding it now occupied by another officer and one of the paramedics. With a confidence that he does not feel, he moves to join them.

"The kid's still in there," the officer, Pulaski, tells him and with a quick nod of his head indicates the room on his immediate left. "He's still pretty shaken up and we didn't want to mess with any evidence that may still be on him, so we just let him be."

Nodding his approval, he tightens his grip on his case and turns to enter the room. It's such an ordinary bedroom, walls adorned with hand painted pictures and cowboy wallpaper. Against one wall stands a unit holding a multitude of toys, haphazardly placed there by childish hands. Action men and black-eyed bears, silent witnesses now to a child's cruel awakening into the real world.

In the centre of the room is the bed; the scene of the crime. The sheets are tangled and in disarray, the colourful bedspread with its cowboy motif lies abandoned on the floor at its foot. Later he will use the ALS on it to gather any physical evidence, before bagging the sheets and taking them back to the lab. But for now his entire focus is on the victim of this monstrous crime.

In the corner of the room, half hidden by the shadow cast by the bed, a tiny form huddles. All that is visible is a shock of brown hair, the face hidden from view as the child buries his head in his arms. His knees are drawn up to his chest and with every breath that he takes, Gil can see the silent sobs that wrack his fragile body, even as he struggles to hold them inside. Clearing his throat to alert the child to his presence, he remains still for a moment and pretends that he doesn't see the swift movement of hand over eyes as the youngster tries ineffectually to wipe away the tears that have stained his cheeks with the salty residue of sorrow and despair.

Crouching down a few feet from the boy, he sets his case aside for the moment. There will be time for it later, but for now, all he needs to do is establish a connection with the victim, never an easy thing for him to do.

"My name is Gil Grissom, son. I'm here to help you. Can you tell me your name?"

Of course, he knows the boy's name already, but he needs to find a way in, a way to get this poor child talking or he will never get the information he needs.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I only want to help you, would that be OK with you?"

"Say, I promise," the boy's voice is weak, fluty. The words gravely spoken, yet sweet all the same. "Say, I promise not to hurt you."

"I promise not to hurt you," and his own voice catches as the implications of that one request sink in. How many times has this child been hurt, what has he endured and how many people have taken his trust and shattered it? Slowly, the little chestnut head lifts itself up and he finds himself under the scrutiny of a sharp gaze and distrustful brown eyes. It's immediately obvious that he has been crying. Even if Gil hadn't seen those small shoulders shaking so violently just a moment before, the puffy swollen eyes would have told the true tale. Still, he holds the boy's frightened gaze and tries to communicate to him the message that he is safe and will come to no harm in his presence.

For an impossibly long minute it seems that he has failed in his quest, but then he sees the boy visibly draw himself together and he cannot help but feel awed by the strength of character that this little boy is showing and by his ability to trust a complete stranger after all that he has been through. It humbles him, and he swears a silent oath to himself that he will catch the monster who abused this innocent for their own sick pleasure.

"What …do I have to do anything?" the child asks. His voice is hesitant, scared and Gil has to remind himself to contain the anger that he feels bubbling inside and focus on the unpleasant task at hand.

"All you have to do is continue to be the brave boy that I know you are. Now the paramedics are going to take you to the hospital, where the doctors will give you a special check up to make sure that you aren't hurt. After that, I'm going to come visit you and take some special pictures of you for evidence and then you can tell me what happened to you tonight. Is that OK with you?"

The child's forehead is scrunched up in concentration as he absorbs Gil's words and then he turns his inquisitive gaze on Gil once again. "What's evidence mean?" he asks, pronouncing the unfamiliar word carefully and succinctly.

Trying to express it in terms that he knows the boy will understand, he tells him, "Evidence is like truth. It tells the true story of things that happen, even when people sometimes tell you lies. It's like proof; a silent witness to the events that happen and no matter what people say, the evidence never lies. Evidence helps us to catch the bad guys and put them in jail."

He can see the boy processing his words and he fears that he may not have made things clear enough for him to follow. Damn, but this is hard. He isn't any good with kids and he so desperately doesn't want to screw this up. He can only hope that the boy can get past his own shortcomings as a teacher and grasp the truth that he is trying to impart.

Watching his face, Gil can see the second that the meaning of his words registers. The look of relief on the boy's face is almost painful in its intensity and he wonders just what he had been afraid of. The answer comes quickly though, as the child lurches forward, knocking Gil onto his ass, his thin arms embracing Gil, touching him for the first time.

"She said that no one would believe me. She said that everyone would know that I wanted it; that it was my fault. But I never wanted any of it. I hated every minute and I tried to stop her. I tried so hard to stop her, but she was too strong. The evidence," again he states the unfamiliar word with conviction and fervour, "will prove that, won't it?" And just like that, his seeming strength is exhausted and he breaks down in Gil's arms, a lost and frightened child seeking solace and comfort in a world gone suddenly mad.

He sits like that, holding the tiny body for who knows how long, clutching the child to him, holding him, riding out the waves of sorrow and pain as he cries out his fear and shame. Finally, when he feels the tremors lessen, he knows that the boy has cried himself to sleep and glancing backwards to the open door he gestures for the paramedic stationed there to enter. Giving up his precious bundle, trusting the other to deliver the child safely to the hospital and his waiting parents he turns once more to the room and begins to process the scene.

He has evidence to gather and a promise to keep.

Thinking back on that day, on that first case, Gil knows that he will never forget his first abused child. How could he? How could he ever forget the pain that he was witness to or the strength and fortitude show by such an innocent? How could he ever forget the feel of that tiny body clinging to his own, seeking succour in the maelstrom of betrayal?

How could he ever forget the first time that he had met Nick Stokes?


	2. Chapter 2: Nick

**Author's Note**: The second in a continuing series series of unrelated fics, each focusing on a different member of the team. There is no connection between each fic, other than the general theme of the piece, which is first times. Betaed by both the lovely **elmyraemilie**and **ilovemycsi**. Any mistakes you find are my own.  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own CSI, CBS does. I'm only playing in their sandbox .

**Warning: For implied violence and rape. **

**You Never Forget- Nick**

With a grateful little moan, Claire Darcy drops her purse and jacket on the couch and slips off her shoes. Wiggling her toes, she pads barefoot into her tiny kitchen and liberates a diet Pepsi from the refrigerator.

"One, two…" she doesn't make it to three in her customary count, before a small, warm body is wrapping itself around her ankles. "Hey, sweetie. Did you miss your momma today? Do you want your din-dins?" Reaching down, she picks up the little furry body and gatherers her to her chest. She takes a moment to hug the little cat, before her fingers find their way to sensitive ears, scratching and tickling them, much to its delight. After a couple of minutes, she lowers her little companion to the floor, before setting herself in motion, fetching cat food from the cupboard and putting out fresh food and water. Once that important task has been accomplished, she turns her attention to her own meal and the rest of her after-work chores.

Almost two hours have passed before Claire finally sits down to rest her weary body. After a small meal she had set to work tackling her laundry and the dreaded ironing, and then generally tidying up the apartment. Not that it really needs it. She is a very tidy person. Years spent in foster care and other people's homes have taught her to value her own space and her privacy and she guards them both passionately. She places a very high value on her little apartment. It isn't just a place to live, like so many of the foster homes that she had resided in while she was growing up. No, this is her place, her sanctuary, her home and she treasures it. Turning on the TV, she stretches out on her worn, but comfortable couch, and breathes a sigh of satisfaction for a job well done. No sooner has she settled herself, than another body joins her on the couch. Taking her time, the little cat ponders on the best resting place, before climbing into Claire's lap and with very small amount of fuss, curls up and promptly falls asleep.

After an hour or two of watching the TV, reality shows and home improvements, Claire reluctantly puts her little friend aside and heads into her small bedroom. Reaching for her backpack, she removes her schoolbooks, running a loving hand over the crisp covers and feels a little rush of pride and achievement. She worked hard to be able to afford these new books. She sacrificed her few creature comforts in an effort to be able to have the best, but then, what price could you put on a future? That's what these books represent; her future; her pathway to a better life, a life with value and prospects, and hopefully some meaning.

Settling herself on the bed, she spreads her books around her and begins to work her way through her assignments. She doesn't have class in the morning, in fact, she doesn't have a class until the day after, but she likes to take her time and make sure that she is well prepared. A slight vibration of the bed alerts her to the incoming feline distracter and then she finds herself the focus of some feline fury. Sophie does not take kindly to being abandoned on the couch, nor does she like being ignored. However, ten minutes of belly tickles and baby talk assure her of her place in Claire's affections and she finally settles down, content to watch as her human goes about her business.

A little while later, thirst prompts Claire to make a trip to the kitchen in search of a quick drink and as she passes the refrigerator on her way back to her studies, she comes to a stop. Temptation calls to her from the depths of the salad crisper, where hidden in the back, behind a head of lettuce and some tomatoes, lays a bar of her favourite, Godiva chocolate. She has given up a lot to be able to afford to go back to school, but everyone needs a little something to get them through the day and chocolate is her one indulgence, her secret vice. Deciding to save herself the trouble of a battle of wills with her conscience, and also the inconvenience of another trip to the kitchen, she admits defeat, reaching inside and snagging the enticing candy.

Deciding that she had done enough for the night, she gathers her books together and sets them carefully on her bedside table. Then she sets her alarm and lays out her clothes for the next morning, hanging her waitress uniform on the back of her bedroom door, before settling back down amongst the pillows. Popping a piece of the cool treat into her mouth, she allows it to melt, savouring the taste and sensations that flood her taste buds. It's ecstasy, pure unadulterated ecstasy, but mindful of the pennies and the calories, she rations her pleasure and wraps the remaining chocolate back up, reminding herself to put it back in the refrigerator in the morning. Then with a contented sigh, she turns out the lights and to the sound of mellow purring, drifts off to sleep.

In the course of our lifetime, we meet many people. Most of those that we meet, if we are honest, mean nothing to us. They are strangers, acquaintances, and workmates. Some, if we are lucky, we call friends. Some, by virtue of random chance and genetics, we call family. Others, by choice, we call lover. However, only a very select few really touch our hearts. Sometimes people, unknown to themselves, make us love them or hate them. Sometimes they can shake our world to its very core and we are never the same again.

Some people we can never forget.

Claire Darcy was twenty-two years old, when Nick Stokes first met her. A quiet, somewhat shy young woman, she spent her days working in a local diner, The Bon Appetit, waiting tables, and her nights studying to become a teaching assistant. Dark haired, slightly on the plump side, she was not the kind of girl that Nick usually found himself attracted to. Still, there was something in her brown eyes, a quality of kindness and vulnerability that drew him to her and he found himself wanting to know more about her.

At first glance, her life was unremarkable.

There was nothing unremarkable about her death.

He has been on the Dallas PD for two years now. Two years of relentless, unforgiving frustration as he watches the guilty walk free from court because of technicalities and legal loopholes. This isn't why he joined the force. He wants to put the guilty away and make life better for the innocent in society. He wants to help people. He wants to be out on the streets making a difference, not be a babysitter for some science nerd and their chem kit.

Shifting slightly to relieve the tension in his lower back, Nick tries not to let his displeasure show. After all, the CSI guy is only doing his job, but man, this sucks. He should be out there looking for the person who killed this poor girl, not standing around in her tiny apartment, watching as a CSI pours over her meagre possessions.

The apartment is spotless. Claire Darcy may not have had much, but what she had, she took care of. From the worn second hand sofa, to the homemade drapes that once shielded her from the prying eyes of the world, she obviously took pride in her home and her possessions. Hardy surprising based the rudimentary information that he had on her. She had been brought up in foster care, an environment where privacy and having your own space was considered a luxury. She had been making her own quiet claim on the world, staking out her own little corner, and someone, had taken that from her, as brutally as they had taken her life.

Watching the CSI as he moves diligently around the room, Nick wonderers what hidden meaning he will find in the scattered schoolbooks, and the bloody sheets that lie twisted on the floor. Evidence of the struggle that had taken place mere hours before; a visual reminder of the battle over life and death, a battle that sadly, Claire had lost. The girl's body is gone now, taken away by the coroner and Nick is glad. Glad that he does not have to see again the broken, violated body or the dead eyes that cry out to him for justice.

Looking around, he spots the other victim, who lies unattended on the floor, awaiting removal. Pictures of the second victim are scattered around the tiny room, taking pride of place in the limited space. Claire too, is in those pictures, looking happy and content, her little tortoiseshell cat snuggled close to her chest or curled up on her knees. On the kitchen floor there are two little bowls emblazoned with the name, Sophie. Now she too lies broken on the blood stained floor, another victim of an unfeeling monster.

He feels his throat begin to tighten as he thinks of the final moments of this young woman's life. Beaten and raped, she had lain in her own bed, slowly bleeding to death. The beast who had done this to her, added a final violation, a final act of cruelty to her already painful end. He had taken her beloved Sophie and slit her throat, before throwing her body to the floor. Now she lays, a little lump of sodden fur, thrown away.

Nick feels tears prick at the back of his eyes as he takes in the tiny body. It was only a cat, but to Claire she had obviously been so much more. Was she Claire's only friend, he wondered? He didn't know, but he grieved for her loss too and for the horror of her final moments.

The sounds of the CSI moving from the bedroom to the minuscule kitchen bring him back to the present and he again turns his attention to the man's meticulous inspection of the crime scene. To his eyes, he can see no sign that the killer has left anything of himself behind. There is no evidence of forced entry, nothing that looks out of place and no immediate suspect to question.

A quick poll of the neighbours has turned up no boyfriends or spurned lovers. There seems to be no reason for this ordinary woman to have been the subject of so brutal an attack. With so little to go on, it seems that they will have to rely on the evidence gathered at the scene to find out exactly what happened here and who is responsible for it.

Now babysitting the science nerd doesn't seem to be such a bad thing. He wants to catch the man responsible for the destruction of so innocent a life and he will do anything, use any means to do it. What does it matter if the tool that helps him nail the guy is a DNA match and not a gun? As long as the guilty are made to pay for their crimes and the innocent protected and avenged, he will be happy.

They caught Claire's killer using DNA found on her body. It matched that of a man pulled over on a routine traffic stop a few months after her murder. The arresting officer found drugs in his car and that allowed them to take a DNA sample. The man had no connection to his victim. He had picked Claire's window at random, as he had driven aimlessly through the city. In his mind, someone was going to die that night. It had just been Claire's bad luck that it was her.

That had been the first time he had ever really given criminalistics a thought. He had gone to the cemetery where Claire Darcy had been laid to rest and told her the news.

"We got him, Claire. We got the bastard who did this to you and your Sophie. He won't ever be able to hurt anyone again."

Standing before the modest stone, he again saw brown eyes filled with kindness and the hope of a better tomorrow. He saw bloodstained sheets and the fragile little body of a lonely girl's only friend, carelessly cast so aside. Together they lived, and together they had died.

The rest of the world has forgotten them now. The reporters that clamoured to cover the case and the subsequent trial have all moved on to other things. A new waitress serves the customers at The Bon Appetit and another term has begun in school. The world has turned, the sun still rises, and life carries on, but not for them.

Yet they are not forsaken.

One man remembers them still. Nick Stokes, once a Dallas cop, now a criminalist for Clark County, Nevada, remembers. In that simple act of human kindness and decency, he finds his reason for enduring the horrors of his working life. Some of his fellows try to forget; some distance themselves from the victims and from their own emotions, but not him. Claire Darcy showed him that both the living and the dead have a voice and that he could make that voice heard.

He will not forget.


	3. Chapter 3: Greg

**Author's Note**: This is the first in a series of unrelated fics, each focusing on a different member of the team. There is no connection between each fic, other than the general theme of the piece, which is first times. Betaed by both the lovely **elmyraemilie**and **ilovemycsi**. Any mistakes you find are my own

**Disclaimer**: I do not own CSI, CBS does. I'm only playing in their sandbox .

**Warning**: Only for stupidity.

You never forget-Greg

"My name is Greg Sanders, and I am an addict."

He's known it for a long time, years in fact. Still, it sounds strange to hear those words, even if it is only inside his own head; but hey, one step at a time, Greggo, one step at a time.

Now that he has time to think, now that he has the courage to look back on his past with a clinical eye, he can see where it all went wrong. Oh, yes indeed, he remembers that first night, that first hit and the power of adrenaline and self-delusion. He thought that he could handle it; he was wrong  
The trouble started when he was studying for his finals at Berkeley. Even though he was an excellent student, even though he worked his ass off, he still couldn't seem to find enough hours in the day to get everything done. His parents started ragging on him to suck it up and get with the program, as if his difficulties were a deliberate attempt to displease and embarrass them.

Yeah, like he'd do that on purpose. They wanted a perfect son and he'd better damn well be one, or there would be hell to pay.

So when one of his buddies, Mark Cleland, offered him a little something to help him out he found himself reluctantly accepting. Before that night, he had been indifferent to the whole thing, but Mark had caught him on a low ebb. Tired, discouraged, and overreached, he had been desperate for something that would give him an edge.

It seemed so innocuous. After all, what harm could a little sip do? It was just a one off thing, a way to get through a rough patch. He only did it when he needed the extra boost to get him through his exams. That, however was soon to change. Before he knew it he found himself grabbing a drink after dinner, just to finish his meal, then there were the sly cups in the middle of the day and before he knew it, it was the first thing on his mind when he woke up in the morning. He couldn't function without it, and that scared the shit out of him, He was beginning to think that he had a bit of a problem, now he knew that he did.

Sitting here in the ER nursing one hell of a headache, and sporting a few stitches, he tries to remember just why he thought that what he had done was funny. His body is trembling with delayed reaction and withdrawal, and he knows that he needs help. His friends try to explain to the nurse and the campus security guard what happened. They had been out enjoying themselves and he had partaken of a few drinks, OK, more than a few. He had been feeling charged and hyper and suddenly it had seemed like a fun idea to head butt the coconut that, for some strange reason, his friends were passing back and forth. Big mistake.

They thought that he was on drugs, but a blood test at the hospital had shown he was clean, well except for one thing. As he had turned to leave, shaking his head in exasperation at the foolishness of the young, the doctor had given him a piece of advice that he would never forget.

"Stick to decaf, kid."

"My name is Greg Sanders, and I am an addict."

Since that night, he has tried to stay away from the good stuff. Damn, Mark Cleland for introducing him to the heady pleasures of Blue Hawaiian. His hand shakes a little as he reaches for the bottle of water that sits on the table before him. It may quench his thirst, but never his need. Mr Sanders, meet Mr Jones.

_AN_: _The stunt with the coconut is real, I swear it. I found it on a student prank site and let me tell you the guy who nutted the coconut was bleeding like a stuck pig. Now that's one morning after I hope I never experience._


End file.
